The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Under the burning eye of heaven
Breathless and bright as noon can be,
Mother and child,—behold them driven
O'er the hot wild in agony;
While each heart throbs that fearful prayer,
“Relieve me, Death! from black despair.”

Beersheba's desert, lone and dun,
Around them both lies grimly spread;
No veiling cloud-shade hides the sun,
And underneath, as on they tread,
The fierceness of its flaming heat
Doth blister their unsandall'd feet.

O, for the music of one breeze
To warble through the windless air!
Or, cooling breath from some chance trees
To mitigate the savage glare,
Which reddens like a furnace-glow
O'er sky and herbless soil below.

But still untamed, the eastern noon
Burns round them in a breezeless trance;
And, yellower than the harvest-moon
Yon wither'd heath which meets their glance;
Above, below, where'er they gaze,
'Tis cruel heat, and cloudless blaze!

No bird-wings break the hush intense,
No murmurs fall from leafy bough;
The very insects in suspense
Refrain their tiny descant now:
So dead the stillness reigning round
A man might hear his heart-beat sound.

Yon haggard mother lifts her eyes,
Around the scene they wildly roll,
And who can list the choking sighs
Which heave from out her riven soul,
And not believe, intenser pain
Could never cleave a heart in twain!

Foodless and fainting lags her child,
Its bleeding feet can hardly stand;
Yet, fired with thirst, along the wild
She guides it with a fev'rish hand:—
The water spent, along her frame
The shudderings deep of horror came!

In vain her sunken eyes survey'd
The arid heath and desert bare,
To see if one lone streamlet stray'd
In flow of mercy lingering there;
For neither gushing well, nor brook
Replied to her despairing look.

Oh, sad Egyptian! outcast one,
By Sarah hurl'd from all thy bliss,
Ten thousand deaths have now begun
To mingle in a death like this;
Methinks I mark thee, Hagar wild,
Shudder to view thy sobbing child!

Fainter and fainter moves each limb,
The parchèd mouth no more can speak;
And when thy tears descend on him,
They burn upon his hollow cheek;
The swoon of death is coming fast,—
The child beneath yon shrub is cast.

Parental Love! 'tis now the hour
To testify how deep thou art;
Replete with superhuman power,
Thy fountain is a mother's heart:
Though fathom'd seas their depths unfold,
The deeps of love what tongue hath told?

From God a mother's feelings rise,
A fount divine is their high source,
And, purer than our thoughts surmise,
They stream through life their endless course;
Outlasting all we love to see,—
They blend with soul's eternity!

And this was hers, who could not dare
Behold her gasping child depart,
But laid him down in mute despair,
Then turn'd her eyes, but not her heart
From that dread sight:—behind a tree
She shrunk, and wept, how bitterly!

And as she wail'd, what sobs and sighs
Along her quivering heart-strings came!
While closed her boy his fainting eyes,
And scorching thirst subdued his frame:
She dared not see, but how she felt
His throbs of anguish through her melt!

But God is nigh, oh, mother wild!
Behold a mission'd angel's wings
Arch their rich glory o'er the child,
And, hark! the mercy that he brings,—
“Hagar arise, God hears thy prayer,
Go, drink yon well which warbles there.”

Her eyes were open'd; from the ground
She saw the crystal water rise,
And then, as though from death unbound,
Outburst a mother's ecstasies!—
She gave her child that cooling stream,
And stood entranced, as in a dream.

And God be thank'd! for this deep tale
Where grief and grace so finely blend;
And ne'er may such high story fail
Our own chill'd hearts to warm, and mend;
For much it holds, if right we read,
To soothe us in dejection's need.

Not from the bond-maid are we born,
But children of the Church, and free;
Yet, oft vex'd life appears forlorn
As though forgot by Deity;
Cains of the heart, we rove accurst
Till life becomes one aching thirst.

But in the gloom of this rack'd hour
When all around looks bleak and bare,
Betake thee to yon gracious Power
Who listen'd to the weeping prayer
Lone Hagar lifted in the wild,
And brought down Godhead to her child.

For, have we not a Living Well
Of consolations deep as pure?
Nor are its waves invisible
If love and faith our hearts assure;
Since Christ is our celestial Spring,
Whom prayer to earth can ever bring.

And minor wells from Him may flow
Of comfort, joy, and heaven-like peace,
Which calm the fever'd heart of woe,
And grant the mind a fresh release;
And such are found in His blest Word
When God by faith is seen, and heard.

There crystal wells of grace abound,—
The promises, which man console,
And cool life's arid desert round
With streams that freshen as they roll;
And seraph heart and saintly mind
Can ever such refreshment find.

Thou Light of reason! Lord of grace,
Heaven's Paraclete, by Christ obtain'd,
Descend, and from our souls displace
Whatever throne the world hath gain'd;
Dark eyes unscale, and let them see
Our everlasting Well in Thee!